


Mind moves matter (among other things)

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [9]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Fantasy, and then it got away from me, because this started out with a simple premise, there is a lot happening basically, welp here we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 14:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: He looks like he has to seriously consider the question, which can’t be right, Tommy thinks, feeling a bit lost, because everybody has a fantasy lying around somewhere, right? One or two that are tried and true, like a favorite book, dogeared and well-worn.In which some people are trying to do a nice thing and then everything goes off the rails.(This is a sorta-kinda-sequel to "Absence makes" and takes place not long after that, but it's probably still fine without reading it first.)





	Mind moves matter (among other things)

Afterwards, Tommy isn’t even sure how he came up with the idea.

It’s not like he’s feeling guilty, exactly… though if he’s completely honest with himself, he’s not feeling great about it either. Also, the possibility of Alfie sleeping with somebody else, which honestly has been a non-issue until now, has been stuck somewhere in the back of his mind ever since, like a small rock rattling around in some machinery.

Which is _not_ the reason he starts thinking about what Alfie might want in bed, at least not entirely… but it’s not like it doesn’t factor into it at all. Because the fact of the matter is this: When they fuck, most of the time, the focus tends to be on Tommy – what he likes, what he does or doesn’t want to do, what gets _him_ off – and it’s not that he thinks that Alfie isn’t getting something out of it as well, because he probably wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t and also, it’s very fucking obvious that he does.

So. He’s pretty sure it’s not an insecurity thing. Mostly. He just figures – lying awake one night, alone, in his bed in Birmingham – that maybe they could… explicitly _do_ something that Alfie would… like to do. With him, or _to_ him- and the details really aren’t that important right now; the main point is that it probably wouldn’t hurt to ask. Put the option on the table, at least.

It takes him three tries to actually bring it up, because the first time they meet up after their… whatever it was – Tommy flat out refuses to call it a reunion, even inside his own head, because reunion sounds like there is actually something more going on between them than sex, which is _not_ what is happening – everything is still a bit stilted and awkward.

The second time around it _isn’t_  awkward anymore, and for whatever reason Tommy is so relieved he doesn’t feel like rocking the boat again immediately. The third time, he is staying at the hotel because he actually has some business in London that needs his attention, and in addition to that, Alfie’s already let him know that there are “a few minor things” happening on his end as well, and that he’s not entirely sure if he’s going to able to drop by at all. So Tommy figures, tonight is probably not going to be an ideal opportunity either, _if_ Alfie even shows up.

Which he does, knocking on the door at half past eleven, looking tired.

“You’re pretty late,” Tommy says, trying to ignore the fact that he’s actually excited to see him.

“Yeah, yeah, apologies mate – probably asleep, weren’t you,” Alfie says innocently, because they both know Tommy wouldn’t be in bed, let alone asleep before two in the morning at the earliest. He puts his cane on the next available chair, straight across the raised armrests.

“Could have been,” Tommy murmurs, distracted by the way Alfie is crowding close. His hair is neatly slicked back for once, which is a small detail, really, but makes him look uncharacteristically put together and he smells… _good._ Tommy can never seem to figure out why, but for some reason it always hits him somewhere visceral, arousal already pooling low in the pit of his stomach.  

“Would you like me to go?”

Instead of an answer, Tommy presses close and kisses him; and then they just stand there in the middle of the room and do that for a while. Alfie taste strangely sweet, like he ate something sugary not too long ago, and Tommy lets him cup his face and lick into his mouth, nice and slow. At some point, they manage to peel Alfie out of his coat as well, which drops on the ground behind him, forgotten.

When they finally separate, they’ve moved over to the bed somehow, sitting on the edge, so close their thighs are pressed together. And Tommy isn’t even planning on saying anything; but something must be showing on his face, because he can practically see Alfie’s expression shift as he’s starting to pay more attention. All right, he thinks, and takes a deep breath. Tonight it is, then.

“You know…” he says, then trails off, unsure of how to actually put it into words.

“What,” Alfie says, clearly amused. He’s probably already figured out that this is going to be about sex, because he’s not an idiot and usually it’s the one thing that makes Tommy hesitate like this.

“I was just wondering,” Tommy says, strangely formal and feeling like a complete idiot. “If there was anything… I mean, what- what do you want?”

Alfie blinks at him a few times, looking honestly surprised.

“What do I want? As in…?”

Tommy shrugs, feeling his face heat up.

“I don’t fucking know,” he says, even though he does. “As in… I don’t know. You always say yes to the shit I want to do, eh?”

He can see Alfie connecting the dots in his head, which – thank God he’s fast on the uptake as far as these things are concerned, because Tommy isn’t sure what he would have done if he had to explain it in any more detail than that.

“What do _I_ want?” Alfie says again, but he’s not really asking for an explanation so much as he’s making sure he got it right. If he has any thoughts as to why Tommy is bringing this up _now,_ he doesn’t let it show.

“Yes.”

“Hmmm,” Alfie says, scratches his cheek and then goes uncharacteristically silent.

He looks like he has to seriously consider the question, which can’t be right, Tommy thinks, feeling a bit lost, because everybody has a fantasy lying around somewhere, right? One or two that are tried and true, like a favorite book, dogeared and well-worn.

So either Alfie is the exception to a pretty universal rule or he is too embarrassed to admit it, whatever it may be, and neither of those things ring true at all. After all, this is the same guy who, not even two weeks ago, made a comment _in public,_ about how next time he was sucking Tommy off, he would just keep going until Tommy was begging him to stop, completely straight-faced and without a care in the world. And he can hear Alfie’s exasperated voice in his own head almost immediately: It was a deserted fucking sidewalk, mate, s’not like I made a public declaration in Hyde Park.

Like that makes a difference, Tommy thinks, still unable to remember that conversation without his ears burning – like that is the fucking _point._

“Hmm,” Alfie says again. He’s just sitting there, looking at Tommy out of the corner of his eye, combing fingers through his beard.

Not embarrassed, Tommy realizes – reluctant. Cautious, maybe. Not because he can’t think of anything, but because he thinks that Tommy is going to say no. Tommy is honestly not sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, it feels kind of insulting that Alfie isn’t giving him more credit than that, but on the other hand – given the way Tommy’s self-preservation tends to kick in sometimes, and how he will instinctively balk at certain things, even though he _wants_ them to happen… he figures it’s probably fair enough.

“Just thought I would ask,” Tommy says. “Eh? But if you don’t-”

“Why?” Alfie says, and he doesn’t sound suspicious exactly, but… something else. Bewildered.

Tommy resists the urge to shove his hands into his pockets. “Jesus Christ, I don’t know! Just… because. If you don’t want to come up with anything, fine, we can just-”

He’s stopped by Alfie holding one hand up, palm facing outwards, like he’s planning to formally take an oath or something. “All right, mate, calm down, yeah? Not saying no.”

“Good.”

There is a small pause.

“I’m assuming, yeah,” Alfie says and then looks down to the floor for a second, seeming to decide that yes, he is going to actually say it out loud. “That sometimes, when the opportunity presents itself – and _I’m_ nowhere to be seen, of course – you…” he waves his hand through the air. “…you know. Get yourself off.”

“I… well,” Tommy says and clears his throat. He can’t tell where this is going at all. “Yeah. Yes. Who doesn’t?”

“I want you to do that.”

“You mean here?”

“Yeah.”

“By… myself?” Tommy says, trying very hard not to sound too baffled.

“Yes,” Alfie says very sarcastically, which should be insulting, but makes Tommy feel a lot calmer instead. “Just you by yourself, yeah. I’m gonna leave, right, give you a bit of time and some privacy… what do you bloody think, mate? Hm?”

Tommy mulls it over in his head. His immediate reaction is relief, if he’s being completely honest, because after all the hesitation, he expected something much… he doesn’t even know. Worse, maybe? More complicated? It’s not even that much of a surprise, now that he really thinks about it, because Alfie wanting to watch – or more specifically, Alfie wanting to watch _him_ – is not a new development at all. It’s something he already does all of the fucking time, unabashedly and unapologetically, in bed and out of it as well.

Tommy decides not to overthink it.

“I… all right,” he says, instead of what he _really_ wants to say, which is ask what the fuck is going to be so bloody interesting about him touching his own cock. But it’s something that seems possible, at least, even if it sounds like it’s going to be a bit awkward. He can do this, he thinks. “Sure. If you think that’ll be something worth seeing, why not.”

Alfie snorts, very obviously amused and trying not to let it show.

“I do think it might be, yeah.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

There is a another pause.

“All right,” Tommy says, feeling  a bit lost. “How do you… should I be naked for this?”

He can tell that Alfie wants to make another sarcastic remark, but he just says, “Yeah, mate, if you want.”

“Right,” Tommy says and, after a moment of hesitation, starts to unbutton his shirt – because if he’s actually doing this, he might as well do it right.

“Want a drink?” Alfie asks and it’s just like him to offer drinks in a hotel room that isn’t even his own, but then again, Tommy really could go for one right now. He’s not nervous, exactly, but it still feels kind of awkward.

“Glass is over there on the cabinet,” he says without looking up from unlacing his left shoe, because he already had some Whisky earlier. Alfie hums and gets up, wandering over; Tommy can hear him clinking around with the bottles.

“Sherry for you, mate, right?”

“Fuck off,” Tommy says, trying not to grin.

He stands up to take off his trousers, carefully puts them over the backrest of the closest chair, together with the rest of his clothes, and now he’s down to underwear and socks. When Alfie turns around, full glass in hand, he just stands there for a moment without saying anything, looks him up and down very deliberately.

Tommy can feel his stomach flip with embarrassment and arousal at the same time, which for some strange reason makes him feel a lot calmer, because he suddenly realizes that this is going to be fine. This is _Alfie,_ after all, so it’s not like Tommy is going to do this and not enjoy any of it – because he generally likes Alfie looking at him, despite the fact that he’ll never admit it out loud, and he’s going to get off at some point, and they have the whole night to figure it out… and even if he completely fails, which is entirely possible, because he has no idea whether he’ll manage to do anything that Alfie seems to want out of this; even then, they can just call it quits and do something else instead, can’t they?

Alfie ambles over and hands him the glass.

“If that’s actually Sherry, I’m putting my clothes back on,” Tommy says and Alfie fucking _grins_ at him.

“Do _I,_ right, do I look like a man to you who’d take that sort of chance?”

“Yes,” Tommy says immediately and takes a careful sip to find he’s drinking Whisky, after all.

“Well,” Alfie says, pretending to be miffed. He sits down on the edge of the bed next to Tommy with a grunt and starts taking off his own shoes. “Shows what you fuckin’ know, don’t it.”

It takes a bit of back and forth until they’re settled, Tommy naked and with his back against the headboard, Alfie an arm’s length away towards the foot of the bed; he has one of his legs stretched out, the other one drawn up, elbow resting on top of it. He’ still wearing most of his clothes, which seems a bit unfair.

“So…” Tommy says hesitantly. “What now?”

“Spread your legs a bit more, hm,” Alfie says, casual as anything, like he’s telling somebody where to put a stack of files or something, and Tommy blinks at him, once, and feels the blood rush downstairs so fast he’s almost dizzy with it – because all of a sudden he realizes that there was never any reason to worry in the first place. Alfie doesn’t need Tommy to figure out anything, he _knows_ what he wants out of this and he is going to fucking _tell him what to do;_ which is something Tommy didn’t even consider as a possibility.

So he does as he’s told, slowly, foot slipping on the covers a bit, and if he didn’t already feel exposed before, he does now, _fuck._ He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he puts them on his thighs, and then he doesn’t know where to look – because it almost seems impossible to look Alfie in the eyes like this. His whole face feels burning hot, right down to his chest.

“Hmmm,” Alfie says, sounding pleased, and tilts his head, like he’s assessing the situation.

“Touch yourself, would you,” he says, then adds, “One hand for now, yeah, and don’t move yet.”

Tommy swallows heavily. Jesus Christ, he’s already half-hard and he hasn’t even put a hand on himself.

“Want to tell me which hand to use as well?” he says, trying for sarcastic and missing by a mile.

“Nahh, mate,” Alfie says seriously. “That’s up to you, innit.”

So Tommy does – puts a hand on himself and curls his fingers around his cock, which gets hard so fast in his grip it’s almost embarrassing. Then he takes a shaky breath and doesn’t move. A few seconds pass by. He is very aware that Alfie is staring at him, but he can’t bring himself to look; fixes his gaze on Alfie’s knee instead, heartbeat hammering in his ears.

“I think…” Alfie says eventually. It’s taking actual effort to hold still at this point, because every fiber in Tommy’s body wants to move, wants to tighten his hand and stroke it up and down, wants to fuck into his own fist. “I think you can move your hand now, mate, once you’ve fuckin’ looked at me. Hm?”

Oh, God.

He forces his eyes upwards, head lolling back against the wall, and then they’re staring at each other; even as Tommy starts moving his hand, mouth falling open at how good it feels. It’s not a conscious decision to go for his usual movements, the way he’d do this if he was by himself, but it happens instantly anyway.

“Bit slower, hm?” Alfie tells him.

“Oh, _come on,”_ Tommy says, panting already, but he complies. Fuck, he thinks, hips moving into it, oh Jesus. Fuck. It’s fast enough to feel good, too slow to do anything else. He can feel one of his legs tipping to the side.

“Anything else?” he manages, voice like gravel.

“Nah,” Alfie says, licking his lower lip. “Keep going.”

So Tommy keeps going - until it’s taking actual effort to keep his eyes open and he’s trembling with it, hips twitching upwards helplessly. He’s trying very hard not to moan, thinking that it’s kind of unfair, how once again this has ended up being mainly about him, which… wasn’t the goal at all.

Then he has an idea.

“Alfie?,” he says, which… he really shouldn’t have bothered, because Alfie’s attention is on him like something metal might be stuck to a magnet.

“Yeah.”

“Give me your shirt.”

Alfie blinks at him a few time, because he’s clearly not following. “What?”

“Your-” and fuck, but it’s hard to concentrate with one hand still loosely curled around his cock. He has to clear his throat and try again. “Give me your shirt.”

All of a sudden, Alfie looks almost suspicious. “Why.”

Tommy shrugs, as casually as he can.

“I’m cold,” he says, trying to sound reasonable, which isn’t even a complete lie. “And I’m assuming it’s going to spoil the show if I do this under the blanket, eh?”

Half the buttons are already undone, including the cuffs, so it doesn’t take long. Alfie hands it over – if he realizes what Tommy is actually trying to do, his face doesn’t give anything away. When Tommy puts the shirt on, he’s not quite swimming in it – Alfie has more mass than him, broader shoulders and an overall heavier build, but he’s only an inch taller and his arms aren’t that much longer, so it almost works out all right. The fabric is still warm and smells like him, which is a gut punch Tommy didn’t expect. He has to bite his lower lip against it, sinking into the material, before he fists his cock again.

“Are you bloody kidding me,” Alfie says, sounding strangled.

“What?” Tommy says, pretending to be confused.

“You’re a horrible fucking person, mate,” Alfie says and he almost sounds like he’s laughing, which is a stark contrast to the way he’s staring at Tommy now, eyes gone dark, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. Like he wants to eat him alive. “And I’m _that_ fucking transparent, apparently, hm?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Tommy says, as straight-faced as possible. He should probably feel ridiculous, playing coy like this, because honestly, he’s not even sure if he’s trying to be seductive or annoying, so what is he trying to accomplish here? “Are you? Why?”

But Alfie is just shaking his head now, rubbing a hand over his mouth; clearly amused at himself, in that way he sometimes gets, when he has a rare moment of self-reflection, muttering, “Terrible. Fucking terrible, mate. Unbelievable.”

If anything, he looks impressed.

Tommy shrugs, as indifferent as he can manage. He’s barley moving his hand now, but his cock is still rock hard between his fingers, the head slick with pre-come.

“You want me to take it off?”

Alfie immediately straightens up at that, almost like he’s squaring up for a fight. “No, I don’t, I do _not_ want you to” he says, pointing a finger at him. “So don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

Normally, Tommy thinks, he’d be embarrassed by now, because he’d feel exposed and vulnerable and he wouldn’t like it, but for some reason, like this, it doesn’t bother him as much. Maybe because it almost feels like a performance – like he’s being vulnerable on purpose, playing a version of himself that’s designed to get Alfie off, even though he isn’t actually performing anything, not really; he wouldn’t even know where to start. But it _feels_ like that, is the point, even if his reactions are as real as anything.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, looking at Alfie through his lashes, eyelids heavy and wanting to close with pleasure. No idea what he’s doing and he probably looks ridiculous, but none of it matters, because _Alfie_ very obviously doesn’t think it’s ridiculous, if the way he’s watching his every move with the intensity of starving man looking at a feast is anything to go by.

“Do that again, love,” he says, mesmerized, when Tommy works his hand over the head of his cock in a way that leaves him breathless, has him shoving into his own grip; and then, when Tommy does as he’s told, low and very emphatically, “Look at you. _Fuck.”_

“Yeah,” Tommy says, mindlessly – and he honestly doesn’t even mean to, but he just can’t help it; he’s hot all over, feeling almost dizzy with it. “If you- if you wanted to, _Jesus,_ you absolutely _should_ …”

On the other side of the bed, Alfie goes completely and utterly still. It’s scary, almost, how he’s not moving a single muscle, doesn’t appear to even blink.

Then he’s across the bed in an instant – Tommy’s not sure he’s ever seen him move this fast, or maybe he’s just too out of it to pay enough attention – and drags Tommy from where he’s propped up against the headboard down onto the mattress, first by one of his ankles, then by his hips; and then he’s on top of him, pressing him down into the bed.

They slot together automatically, Alfie coming down heavily between his thighs, Tommy clutching at his back; they’re kissing before he’s even completely registered what’s happening. He lets Alfie lick into his mouth, sucks on his tongue and pushes his hands underneath the long-sleeved undershirt he’s still wearing. They kiss for a long time, until Tommy pushes at his chest – and he can tell Alfie doesn’t want to stop, but he does anyway; because he always does at the end of the day. Still, he doesn’t go very far, propping himself up on his forearms, their faces only inches apart, tilting his head.

“What is it, then?”

“I mean,” Tommy murmurs, nosing against his cheek, drawing it out just to make him wait for it. “This… s’not really what you said you wanted, eh?”

“Don’t give a fuck about what I _said_ I wanted, do I,” Alfie murmurs back, but there’s still a trace of amusement in his voice, like he’s well aware that he’s being played and he’s going along with anyway.

“Well, I do,” Tommy says, seriously.

“Ohh, you do, do you now,” Alfie says, mocking him. “Since bloody when?”

“What do you mean,” Tommy says and raises an eyebrow at him. His cock is wedged between his own stomach and Alfie’s hip, the scratch of fabric just short of uncomfortable, and he’s rocking against him in tiny, aborted movements, can’t even help himself – he’s simmering with arousal, it’s coursing through his blood like honey, slow and sticky-sweet. Probably could come like this, he thinks, if he really wanted to.

“Always do,” he says, then adds, “All of the time.” which might be one of the biggest lies he’s ever told and they both know it.

“You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor, mate” Alfie tells him, very seriously. “Could’ve sworn I read that somewhere, yeah, in the paper maybe…”

Tommy has a strange out-of-body moment, wondering how the fuck he managed to end up like this, leaking pre-come onto his own stomach, having the Ten Commandments quoted at him by someone who has tried to shoot him on multiple occasions in the past and is undoubtedly going to make him come his brains out tonight.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” is what he says out loud.

“No?” Alfie says, already distracted, because he’s lowered himself down again and seems too busy burying his face against Tommy’s neck; licking at his jaw, kissing his ear and then moving even lower, gently setting his teeth against Tommy’s pulse point. Tommy tips his head up to give him better access, hisses through his teeth when he actually bites down.

“No,” he confirms, breathless. “And I swear to God, if you leave a fucking mark-”

“Oh, can’t blame me for this, mate,” Alfie says conversationally; Tommy can feel the gust of breath on his skin as he talks, can feel the scratch of Alfie’s beard on his neck. “S’all your fault, really, yeah… Now what was that you mentioned just now? Hmm? About how I should… maybe fuck you or something?”

“Up to you, isn’t it?”

At this, Alfie freezes up for a second before he lifts his head up, eyes gone very dark – and it must be because Tommy is saying all of these things out loud, because it’s not like this is a new development; it’s not like Alfie never gets to _decide_ anything.

“You do it,” he says.

“What?”

“If it’s up to me, right,” Alfie says. “Then that’s my vote. Because I _really_ think, yeah, that you should open yourself up for me,” and his hand is on Tommy’s neck now, thumb under Tommy’s chin forcing his head backwards, up against the pillow, making him swallow helplessly. “Get yourself nice and wet and _ready,_ if you feel that strongly about it, hm?”

Tommy draws in a harsh breath. Alfie’s mouth is already back on his neck again, scraping his beard over the sensitive skin there and making him tremble.

“Yeah,” is all he manages. “I- yeah. Fine.”

By the time he’s done, he’s shaking with it, even though the angle isn’t ideal – not uncomfortable, but not really doing much for him either, because he never did get the hang of how to make it really good, opening himself up like that. But it doesn’t seem to matter, because he’s been hard for what feels like an eternity at this point and even the idea of what’s about to happen is enough to make him clench around his own fingers helplessly. He wants… Jesus Christ, he just _wants._

Something must be showing on his face, he thinks, or maybe Alfie is finally losing his patience as well, because he settles back on top of him and guides his cock inside with one hand. There is more of a stretch than usual, because Tommy rushed the preparation, but it’s fine; Alfie notices the trace of discomfort immediately and opens him up slowly and with a lot of pauses.

Once he’s bottomed out, he lets Tommy get used to it for a bit, waits for his breathing to calm down – and then slow and simmering seems to be over, thank Christ, because Alfie really starts fucking him and he’s not being nice about it either. Everything kicks into high gear – like a pot of water that has finally reached its boiling point and all of a sudden, it’s burning hot and spilling over.

They’re straining against each other, Tommy meeting him on every thrust, trying to buck up from the bed – because he already knows he’s not going anywhere, Alfie won’t _let him_ , he’s using his weight to keep him down, presses him back into the mattress so fucking _easily,_ which is something that never fails to make Tommy’s stomach flip, makes him want to arch his back and bear his throat, makes him run so hot it almost _hurts._

“Wait,” he pants, almost mindlessly. “Just, wait a second-”

“Yeah,” Alfie says, sounding strained, and lifts himself up again to look at Tommy’s face. “Yeah, all right, what is it now?”

And the truth is, Tommy has actually no idea why he does what he does next – didn’t even know he was going to do it, if he’s perfectly honest, but he’s working on instinct by now. Deep down he already knows that he’ll be mortified by this later, but right now he doesn’t care enough to stop.

“Just…” he murmurs, which is all he can actually verbalize, and then he very slowly and deliberately pushes his arms up above his head, twisting his fingers in the fabric of the pillow.

Alfie is staring down at him like he’s never seen him before, looking almost shocked, gaze going from the way Tommy has stretched his arms above his head back to his face and back up again. Tommy half expects him to refuse or to ask if Tommy is sure about this, but he doesn’t – he fits his hands around Tommy’s wrists very carefully, without adding any pressure at first, gently stroking one of Tommy’s palms with his thumb.

Tommy shudders despite himself, shifts against him, and something in Alfie’s face changes; he tightens his hold, puts actual weight behind it, bearing down. It does very nice things for his arms, muscles shifting, and when Tommy tries to move his hands, Alfie’s grip is like iron, Jesus, there’s _no give_ _at all._ He tugs a bit harder, a whine stuck in the back of his throat, and tries to twist his wrists around, which makes no difference, no fucking difference at all, his hands are not moving an inch in any direction, oh God, _oh fuck-_

Alfie’s started moving again, but it’s like he’s not even paying attention to what he is doing, both of them intently focused on Tommy trying to free his hands and not getting anywhere with it. Still, their bodies seem to pick their previous rhythm back up without any conscious decision, because they’re moving against each other again, effortlessly, Alfie fucking into him, Tommy arching up to meet him.

They manage that for about thirty seconds and then Tommy suddenly has one white, hot second where he considers the possibility of Alfie flat out refusing to let him come – that he’d just keep holding him down and not allow him to touch at all, making him take it and take it, letting Tommy twist in his grip and beg himself hoarse, until he really and truly couldn’t stand it anymore, and maybe not let him go even then. It makes him feel desperately embarrassed and stupidly turned on at the same time – that he’s so _easy_ for it, that all Alfie has to do is get his cock into him and he’ll spread his legs and let him do _anything-_

And suddenly he’s coming, just like that, without even touching his cock; which has happened before, once or twice, but never on accident and not when he’s on his back like this. He gives into it immediately, easily, tightens his legs around Alfie’s waist and lets it wash over him, because Jesus Christ, it feels _so_ _good;_ he never wants to be somewhere else, do something other than _this, fuck._

“ _Christ,”_ he moans, a lot less self-conscious about it than he usually would be. “Oh, _fuck, oh,_ Jesus, yes-” because somehow, this is still part of the act, even though he’s not doing it on purpose, has no control over anything, but still – in the back of his mind, he _knows_ that Alfie likes it when he makes noise, because he couldn’t be more obvious about it if he tried.

And when Tommy blinks his eyes open, still in the middle of riding out his orgasm, Alfie is staring down at him with such a mixture of outrage and pure, unadulterated _want_ that it would be almost comical, if it didn’t make Tommy’s breath catch in his chest, all of a sudden. Because Alfie is on to him, he realizes with a sudden wave of unbearable fondness, he knows _exactly_ what Tommy is doing and why, and it’s _still_ working like a charm; he’s absolutely falling for it, and he knows it, too.

Tommy wants to say something, doesn’t even know what, because suddenly he’s full of some strange, devastating emotion and he can’t, it’s too much, so he clumsily kisses him instead, even though there really isn’t enough air left for that; Alfie kisses him back, before he buries his face against Tommy’s neck, the tenderness a stark contrast to the way he is snapping his hips now, fucking into him ruthlessly, hard and fast. For once, Tommy doesn’t even try to fight the small, wounded sound he wants to make on every thrust, even though it doesn’t really hurt; it’s more overwhelming than anything else.

“Oh, _fuck_ you,” Alfie groans. “Oh, bloody hell. _Fuck.”_

He hooks a hand under one of Tommy’s knees and pushes Tommy’s thigh up against his chest, effectively holding him open; fucks into him three more times, almost brutally, and then he starts coming, buried as deep inside as he possibly can. There is a dull pain – Alfie has bitten his shoulder through the shirt, Tommy realizes, a shudder going through him, thinking, Jesus, he’s _still_ wearing the fucking shirt.

Afterwards, Alfie rolls off of him, but doesn’t move away, grabbing his hand and linking their fingers together instead. Then they’re just lying there, slick with sweat and heaving for breath and absolutely out of it. Tommy realizes they’re both shaking – actually shaking, like they’re cold or something – except he feels warm and dazed and so fucking _good._

“You all right?” Alfie rasps eventually.

“Mhmm,” Tommy says, needing a moment to form an actual sentence. “Good thing you managed to think of something, eh?”

Next to him, Alfie makes an amused sound. “Yeah. One of my finer moments, that.”

“Doesn’t say much,” Tommy murmurs, grinning to himself. “Not that many to choose from, are there.”

“Kindly fuck off,” Alfie says, but he presses a kiss to Tommy’s shoulder, quick and dry, like he secretly hopes Tommy won’t notice. “I’ll have you know, yeah, that I have a _lot_ of fine fuckin’ moments, every single day even.”

“None of ‘em include you shutting up, apparently,” Tommy murmurs and very deliberately curls into him, because fuck it – after everything that happened tonight, this isn’t going to make a lot of difference any more. He can feel himself drifting off to sleep already, which is very rare and probably won’t last long, but he might as well take it for what it is.

“Well,” Alfie murmurs quietly, lips brushing against the top of his head. “I’d tell you how fuckin’ wrong you are, mate, wouldn’t I, because this is a pretty fucking erroneous assumption all around, but I’m not, right – because that would just support your argument, hm? Wouldn’t it.”

“Good thing you’re not telling me that, yeah…” Tommy mutters.

And then he doesn’t hear anything else, because he's fallen asleep.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This started out with the simple idea of Tommy wanting to do something nice for Alfie, basically, and then it just... took on a life of its own and decided that it wanted to run off into three different directions at once. (So I apologize for any possible incoherence, I really wasn't in charge for this one.)
> 
> Also, this is a very sad testimonial to _how many_ mental gymnastics I have to put Tommy Shelby through before I can write him visibly and evidently enjoying something in bed without being self-conscious about it.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
